


In Which John Snaps

by bibliolatry



Series: Let's Write Sherlock Challenges [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Murder, Suicide, enucleation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's Write Sherlock Challenge # 4</p><p>Write a fic that is exactly 1895 words long and ends with the word ‘obviously’</p><p>John has finally snapped. </p><p>Enucleation - the removal of the eyeball from its socket</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John Snaps

**Author's Note:**

> According to Mycrosoft Works Word Processor, this one-shot is approximately 1895 words long. It also end's in 'obviously'. Boom!

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade breaths as he takes in the scene. “Fourth one in two months. Time to call him in.”

“Do we really have to?” Donovan asks, her lip rising in a sneer as she considers their ability to solve this particular case without the help of the freak.

“Afraid so,” Lestrade sighs running a hand through his hair. “We don’t have much to go on, this guy needs to be stopped. He’s our only hope.”

₪ ₪ ₪

“What I don’t understand,” says Sherlock as he kneels beside the corpse, “is why it took you so long to call me in.”

“Well,” Donovan starts, but Lestrade cuts in. “We called you in now, so don’t start Sherlock. Can you give us anything?”

Sherlock shrugs noncommittally, his eyes tracing over the body. The eyelids have been stitched shut with a thick black string. Sherlock knows he needs to wait for the autopsy report, but that doesn’t stop his fingers from twitching with the desire to cut that thread and explore what it hides. Aside from a bit of bruising along the neck (asphyxiation caused by a garrote), there really isn’t much to go on. This person is precise, takes victims of convenience, but is thorough in the clean-up and leaves no trace evidence behind. This person knows all to well that a small bit, even just a single fuzz, can lead to them. They were extremely thorough.

Sherlock stands and nods as though he’s answered an unasked question. He turns, keeping his face neutral as he strides away from the scene. “Contact me if you find anything more. I’ll be at Bart’s.”

₪ ₪ ₪

“John, when will you be back?” Sherlock asks, straining his ears for any signs of John’s location. 

“You know I can’t answer that, Sherlock. There’s a reason they’ve called me in on this. I know all about OPSEC and what it takes to make it through without revealing anything of importance. You know how to contact me if you need me.”

“But I do need you, John. This person, this guy, they’re good, John. They know how to clean up after themselves, they leave nothing behind. They obviously have some form of medical experience, or perhaps taxidermy. There’s nothing there, John. Why can’t I find anything?”

“You’ll figure it out, Sherlock. You always do. I have to go, time for my shift. I’ll be home sooner than you think.”

John hangs up and Sherlock huffs in aggravation. Whenever John calls, he’s always holed up in some place that lets absolutely nothing on where he could possibly be. It’s absolutely silent wherever he is, almost as if he locks himself in some room and shuts everything off; maybe a safe or some other sound-proof room. It’s infuriating. 

“I will figure it out,” Sherlock announces to the empty flat. “I’ll find you and have you behind bars before John returns.”

₪ ₪ ₪

“When is John due back?” Lestrade asks. Sherlock is holed up in his office with him, his entire body vibrating with unspent energy as they go over the files for the other three victims. 

“Not sure,” Sherlock replies, his fingers tapping along with an unheard melody as his eyes shift left to right to left over and over. He’s read every page in each file a minimum of seven times already and still nothing jumps out at him. How can someone be so absolutely thorough in the mutilation of a human body? Even from the beginning their movements were precise, their victim cleaned methodically, the eyeballs… “Blue,” Sherlock breathes.

“What?” Lestrade sits up straight, turning in his chair so he can face Sherlock straight on.

“Blue eyes. They all have them,” Sherlock waves a few photos around as he searches through the pile and picks up more. “All four of them, blue eyes.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade nods, rubbing at his chin. “How’d we miss that.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but Lestrade cuts him off. “Don’t,” he warns, “for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, leave it be. We have to find this guy before he strikes again.” Sherlock nods, his lower lip pouted a bit as he crosses his arms over his chest and sinks back in his chair.

₪ ₪ ₪

“Shit,” Lestrade bellows. This is the sixth body to pop up. Will there be no end?

“Calm down, Lestrade,” Sherlock groans. “We’ll catch him. It’s just a matter of time. They all make mistakes.”

“Easy for you to say Sherlock. Not all of us are machines,” Anderson hisses as he moves back out of the room.

The woman lay on her back, her arms placed over her chest in an Egyptian manner. Her eyes are covered with medical gauze, her mouth sewn shut and Sherlock is sure that if the gauze were removed, her eyelids would be as well, with the same thread as the previous five victims.

“Fuck,” Donovan calls, “there’s another.”

Sherlock and Lestrade beat a hasty retreat from the back office and follow Donovan’s voice until they come to a small utility closet. There’s a young man, no more than twenty-three. His body is strewn in much the same manner as the womans, but the killer obviously hadn’t had a chance to finish completely. The man’s eyes are unwrapped, the needle and thread still attached to the left eye where he’d been in the middle of sewing the lids shut when he was interrupted.

“Maybe we can get prints off this,” Donovan suggests and Sherlock makes a derisive noise.

“Not going to happen,” he retorts.

“And what makes you say that?” Donovan asks.

“He’s meticulous, cleans everything, leaves no trace of himself behind. He’d obviously wear gloves and make sure both needle and thread have absolutely no residue of his person on them.

“Yeah, but if he hadn’t planned on leaving them behind,” Anderson cuts in.

“No,” Sherlock insists. “You won’t find anything. Run your tests if you want, but it’s time that would best be spent working out who this guy is and catching him.”

“Right,” Lestrade nods. “Go ahead, Anderson. See what you can get. We’ll continue as we have been.”

₪ ₪ ₪

“Will there be no end?” Hoffman cries out. His brother is the current victim. Lestrade wraps his arms around the young PC’s shoulders and walks him off the scene.

“Go home, Hoffman. We’ll contact you with whatever we find.” 

Donovan walks over to the two men and leads PC Hoffman from the building. It’s already been a long day, this increase in the body count with the latest serial killer isn’t helping matters. Sherlock seems to be losing his mind without John, he’s tetchy, even more annoying and rude than typical. Lestrade is just about at the bottom of the barrel with this bit. 

“Got anything, Sherlock?” he asks as the consulting detective moves up to the body.

“Nothing more than any of the other bodies provided, Lestrade. I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t figure this one out. Someone has finally gotten the better of me. Are you happy?” he’s shouting by the time he finishes, throwing his arms out around himself as he spins and yells at the ceiling. “Are you happy? You’ve beaten Sherlock Holmes. Are you quite satisfied yet?”

Lestrade stares at Sherlock, wondering if he’s officially lost his mind. 

“How many more?” Sherlock yells before the entire scene finally falls silent.

₪ ₪ ₪

“Stop it,” he says.

The woman stares at him, her eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Stop looking at me, stop reading me. Just stop,” he says.

She can’t speak; her mouth has been covered. He’s taking more time on each one now. He shouldn’t be. That’s a careless move. He needs to get this done; get it finished, clean up, and be long gone before anyone can come along and find him. He needs to make sure no shred of evidence is left behind. It wouldn’t do to have them figure out who he is.

Remove the eyes, stuff with cotton, sew them shut. Sew the mouth shut simply because he either talks too much or never says enough, the insufferable git.

“Just stop,” he whispers, shuts his eyes tight to fight back the tears.

₪ ₪ ₪

“This is getting ridiculous,” Donovan says.

“Have you got anything? Anything at all?” Lestrade begs.

There’s nothing; not a modicum of evidence that would point to whoever this sadistic being is. Sherlock is at a loss; he’s running on nothing. Hasn’t been able to sleep, hasn’t been able to eat. The case takes up all his time. Hasn’t heard from John in nearly a week. Where is he? When will he come home?

Wait. What is that? Is that? No. No, it can’t be. 

“John,” Sherlock breathes and Lestrade stares at what he holds in his hand. 

He finally made a mistake. Finally left something at the scene. A few strands of sandy-blonde hair, a single strand of grey in the mix. He bags them, hands them to Anderson for forensic analysis. He already knows who they belong to; he’s just praying (to a God he doesn’t really believe in) that he’s wrong. It can’t be John. 

₪ ₪ ₪

“Why?” Sherlock shouts and John lets out a maniacal laugh.

“Do you know?” John asks, wipes the rain from his eyes before continuing. “Do you know what it’s like to constantly live under a magnifying glass? Do you know how it feels to be scrutinized every moment of every day? To have your entire life laid before you with a brief glance; have your faults verbalized because your idiot of a flatmate doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up?”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is low, barely audible. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the full details. When had John lost it? What pushed him over the edge.

“It’s your fault, Sherlock,” John tells him. “I was fine until I met you.” 

He raises the gun, points it Sherlock, smirks, then turns it on himself and fires before Sherlock can even blink. John is gone. John lost his mind and then lost himself. John.

₪ ₪ ₪

It took Lestrade considerably less time to arrive than it would have if it had been a normal case. There wasn’t much to go over. Sherlock had recorded the conversation. It was put into evidence. No one wanted to listen to it yet. 

“Are you okay?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock can only nod. He’s not sure he’s actually okay; not sure he’ll ever be okay again. John is gone. John won’t be back. John, his tether to the world, the only person that tried to understand, tried to pull him back when his mind raced beyond everything and he floated out in himself.

“Should I call your brother?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“I can’t believe John lost it like that. What do you suppose set him off?” Lestrade asks.

“Getting deduced on a daily basis by the freak,” Donovan put in.

“Now’s not the time, Donovan,” Lestrade grumbles. “Leave him be.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the most likely answer, Sally” Sherlock concedes, his eyes closing for a moment as he re-centers himself.

Donovan turns at stares at him for a moment, her eyes widened and mouth agape. “You mean, you’re actually agreeing with me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Obviously.”


End file.
